MAXIM: BWWM Russian Mafia Romance (Red Bratva Billionaires Book 1) Read online

  Maxim

  Red Bratva Billionaires

  Coco Miller

  COCO MILLER ROMANCE

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  Copyright © 2019 Coco Miller

  All rights reserved.

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  License Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

  Contents

  Books By Coco

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Also by Coco Miller

  Books By Coco

  Big City Billionaires

  Faking For Mr. Pope

  Virgin Escort For Mr. Vaughn

  Pretending for Mr. Parker

  Red Bratva Billionaires

  MAXIM

  SERGEI

  VIKTOR

  Introduction

  Warning: this is not a neat, tidy, little love story.

  This is messy.

  This is ratchet.

  Girl meets fierce Russian.

  Girl falls for fierce Russian.

  But there’s only one little problem.

  The man of her dreams is already married.

  And it gets even worse…

  To her sister.

  Is there any chance that this love story can end with a happily ever after?

  Maxim is a steamy, stand-alone, Russian mafia romance. It is not appropriate for readers under 18 due to sizzling HAWT love scenes!

  Prologue

  I’m not a big believer of love. Romantic love that is. I have no desire to meet the man of my dreams, because quite honestly I just don’t think he exists.

  Not everyone has somebody out there who is a perfect match for them. It’s true, just ask around. Look at everyone you know. Do you have many successful marriages in your family? I don’t. Do you know many happy couples in your circle? I sure don’t. All of my role models can’t keep a relationship together to save their lives, so how am I expected to?

  I can’t believe that there is just one special person for everybody. How is that possible with all of the billions and billions of people out there? I mean it’s crazy, right? Does your special person always conveniently live near you? Because I live in the United States, but what if my soulmate lives in Guam? How the hell am I supposed to meet him, because I’m not going to Guam anytime soon. Does that mean I’ll never meet my true love? Does that mean that millions of people will never meet their perfect match?

  I wish I could say that my family loves me unconditionally, but I think my mother would like me a lot better if I settled down. I think she’d be ecstatic if I came home one day with a man on my arm, and at this point, I don’t think she’d even care who it is as long as he’s alive and breathing. Not sure why though. My sister was married for a while to someone my mother adored, but it didn’t work out. Big shocker there. Even my own mother’s marriage to my father didn’t work out. So why is she so hellbent on me finding true love?

  Sometimes I think people want you to suffer the same heartbreak they once did.

  Like it makes you stronger or something. Like you’re part of some elusive heartbreak club, and you can wallow in the ache of it all. How you overcame it. How you thrived when you never thought you would again.

  It’s all so much drama. So much madness. A chaotic achievement of nothingness. A blend of overcoming some super important struggle that only you can come out victorious but really not victorious at the same time. Does that make sense?

  Maybe, and this is a small maybe, being in love is that powerful, that wonderful, that no matter the heartbreak that is sure to follow– it’s just that good being in love in the first place.

  If you know something is bad for you, do you still take the risk? Still make the jump? Maybe some people are bigger risk takers than me. I don’t want the hurt. I don’t want the pain. I was dumped in high school on prom night when I wouldn’t sleep with my long-term boyfriend. That was the closest I’d ever come to having my heartbroken, and that was enough pain for me.

  So, when my mother tries to push love on me, I rebel.

  I don’t want it.

  Even if my sister has found it for the second time.

  I don’t ever want it for the first time.

  There’s more to life than just love. I don’t know what it is quite yet, but I’m sure there’s more to life, and someday soon I will find out those things. Until then, I’ll keep denying love when it shows up right outside my bedroom door.

  No matter what it looks like.

  Chapter One

  I’m not the type of girl who believes in love at first sight. In fact, I repel all that lovey-dovey mushy nonsense. It isn’t me. I’m more of a realist sprinkled with a dash of cynicism. Call it what you want, the fact of the matter is the same... that love stuff is for romance novels and Hollywood movies– not me.

  I wasn’t always this way. I grew up reading fairy tales like any girl did. I believed my prince charming would ride up on his white horse wielding flowers of every variety. It wasn’t until a year or so ago, when my parents decided to call it quits on their own marriage, that I lost all hope.

  Why? Because your parents are your example. They are the ones we look up to, right? And if they can’t keep love going strong after twenty plus years of marriage, well then where’s the hope for the rest of us?

  So you can see why I didn’t believe I would ever experience that heart-stopping, romantic, think about him all the time feeling, right? Funny thing though is that I did. Badly. But let me start at the beginning of this tragedy. It’s a story that will have you rooting for the heroine, even if she is a love hater.

  I am twenty-two years old and alone. Of course I’ve dated before, but I’ve never had that moment of clarity where everything falls into place with someone. But, and here comes the sarcasm, wait for it... my older sister has recently married for the second time.

  First she was married at the age of eighteen to a man named Jamal. They divorced a few years later, and she said she’d sworn off men, and that she would never marry again. So you can imagine my surprise when my mother called me last month and said that Tasha had gotten married...again.

  Needless to say, my mother was in tears of happiness at the announcement of Tasha’s impending marriage, but her tears quickly dried when my sister announced she’d eloped.

  Eloped!

  Now I’m driving my little Subaru to my childhood home in the heart of a small fishing town in Maine. It sits right on the beach with amazing views and is filled with fond memories; but hanging for the whole summer with my mother and Tasha? Not my idea of a great time.

  So of course I tried to cancel with my mother when she extended the i
nvite. I told her I was going to visit my father in South Carolina, but she quickly nixed that. She told me if I missed this summer with her, I’d be cut off. Cut off from what, I don’t really know. It’s not like we are swimming in money. Regardless, I’m on my way. Message received, mommy.

  Ah, I almost forgot Maxim. My sister’s new husband. He’ll be there, too. This will be my first time meeting him, which I think is my mother’s entire point of requiring this visit. She thinks rubbing my sister’s marriage in my face might actually rub off on me. Like maybe I’ll miraculously want a husband. But if my sister is any example, no thank you.

  I pull up to my mom’s, and thank God I beat my sister and her new husband here. I grab my bag and walk up the wooden steps to the large cabin and take in a breath of the fresh air. Ah, summer in Maine.

  I hear the waves from the ocean not far away, crashing and churning. With each crash, it speaks to me, “Katrina, come and play.”

  Soon, my friend, soon.

  I plan on never leaving the beach while I’m here. It’s one of my favorite places to think, to reflect, to sleep, and it has been since I was a little girl.

  Before I can knock on the door, it swings open with my my mother on the other side of it smiling from ear to ear. “Katrina, you’re here!” Her arms wrap around me as she pulls me in for a bear hug.

  “Yeah, yeah, here I am.” I just can’t control the sarcasm with my mother.

  I try. I really do. You have to believe me. If you had to deal with her as your mother, you’d feel the same way. She’s overbearing and hard to please, to say the least, and that’s putting it nicely. I smile at her as I plug my earbuds into each ear. The sounds of Beyonce fill my ears, and I am once again happy.

  I grab my bag and suitcase and head to the room I use while I’m here. After the divorce, my mother stayed here in the house I grew up in. Dad and his new wife moved to South Carolina. My sister and I moved to Boston for college, not together of course. We live half an hour away from each other but never see each other. She lives on her side of Boston and me on mine which isn’t surprising. We were never really that close.

  My mother shouts to me from downstairs, and I turn the volume up on my iPod. Rude, yes. Necessary, absolutely. I dance around the room as I put my clothes into the old wicker armoire. I’m listening to one of my favorite Beyonce hits–Naughty Girl. I was a kid when this song came out and it always gets me hyped. I start dropping to the floor and shaking my ass to it, and when I rise, I stop mid-twirl because I’m dumbstruck by what I see. My eyes slam into a pair of intense brown eyes staring back at me.

  Yanking the earbuds from my ears, I rake my eyes over the tall specimen in front of me. Hello, hottness. Who is this man? His body is solid with a nice, dark tan and several intricate tattoos covering his muscles. His jet-black hair hangs low along his forehead, and he smiles with a hint of mischievousness.

  “Privyet,” his thick accented voice says, sending shivers down my spine.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Hello.”

  “Who are you?” I ask bluntly.

  “Maxim. You must be Kat-a-rina.”

  This is my sister’s new husband? She’s always had the best fucking luck.

  “It’s Katrina, not Katarina, and why are you in my room?” I sneer at the way his eyes sweep over my body. Fucking pervert.

  He laughs as he crosses his arms. “I was just looking around.”

  “Go look around elsewhere. This room is off limits.” I step closer and grab the edge of the door in my hands.

  “That’s too bad, Katrina. You really are a great dancer,” he drawls. His accent is sexy and my insides tingle.

  I never imagined what a Russian accent what do to me, and tingles from this man are bad. I slam the door in his face before the tingling gets out of control. My name from his lips though? Damn, the way he said it sent chills up my spine. But...he’s my sister’s husband. He should not be sending chills anywhere.

  Maxim.

  Ugh, even his name is sexy.

  I don’t want to admit he caused some sort of inferno to happen deep down in my core, because that would be hella wrong.

  So, I won't.

  Chapter Two

  After putting away my clothes, I head downstairs to properly meet my sister’s husband. I’m willing to start over. Try this again. Once I reach the bottom of the stairs, my sister’s big head bobs toward me.

  “Trina, how are you? I’ve missed you so much. Did you cut your hair? It almost looks like a boy haircut,” she says, running her fingers through my hair.

  See how she adds the backhanded comment? She does it all the time. ‘Hey, Katrina, I love that skirt, although it hugs your curves a little too much.’ It’s always some backhanded compliment with her. ‘Katrina, love your new boyfriend, is he a janitor at the supermarket?’

  “Thanks, Tasha. No, my hair has actually grown a lot since last I saw you.”

  My hair used to be cut in a short sleek cut, but since I’ve embraced my natural curls, I did a big chop and am letting it grow out. Sure, it’s not as long as her store bought weave, but it’s definitely long enough to be recognized as a woman.

  “What’s your hair looking like under those tracks?” I snipe.

  Maxim smiles from the corner of the living room. His presence makes me nervous. It’s his eyes, or the way he stares at me, as if I’m his last meal and he’s dying of hunger.

  “What are tracks?” he asks almost innocently.

  My mother tries desperately to change the subject by ushering us into the kitchen where she claims she has prepared a feast for us. This’ll be classic. Party platters line the counters with…wait, what are those? Pigs in a blanket appetizers with mustard for dipping in small ramekins. Uh oh, I see a McDonald’s trip in my future, and I hate McDonald’s.

  My mother grabs toothpicks from the drawers, since she has no real silverware in the house. She is a finger food fanatic.

  “Hope you all like wieners,” she says and laughs at her bad attempt at a joke.

  “Oh, I love sticking wieners in my mouth. These little ones are fine, but usually I like the bigger, hard variety.” I pop one of the appetizers in my mouth and smile at my joke.

  My mother shakes her head, and Tasha rolls her eyes. When my eyes cross over to Maxim’s, his are bright with laughter.

  Shit, maybe that was a bit much for company, but he’s family now. He’s going to have to learn about my sarcastic sense of humor sooner or later. Won’t matter, though. I don’t plan on staying here that long.

  He pops a wiener in his mouth and glances over to me. “Can’t say I’ve ever had a wiener in my mouth. I’m usually the one doing the sticking of them into a warm, pretty mouth.”

  “Oh god, Maxim,” Tasha shrieks, hitting his arm.

  Him and I exchange a look and chuckle. Maybe he’ll fit in this family better than I thought. My mother grabs the platter and heads into the dining room. We all take a seat at the large, oak table and enjoy our wieners. With each bite, I find myself eyeing Maxim. He sits next to my sister, like a Russian God, with his arm casually draped on the back of her chair.

  My mother begins her interrogation on everything regarding their relationship. I tune most of it out but focus on one detail. One very weird detail. They met at the gym. My sister hates working out. Which you can tell by the size of her large ass. Yes, I know. Shame on me for fat shaming my sister, but I guess that was a little extra internal payback for the hair dig.

  As I listen, Tasha claims that she took a yoga class, and it was love at first sight. That might be the only part of the story that I do believe. This guy is fucking hot. Anyone would fall hard and fast for him.

  He laughs as she recounts their first date and all I hear is Wah, Wah, Wah in my mind. Almost like the teacher in Charlie Brown who talks all mumbled, because what she says isn’t important. That’s how I feel about every single word out of my sister’s mouth. Unimportant.

  After the so-called “lunch feast,”
I decide to hit the beach. I’ve been here roughly three hours and that is too long to not visit it. The beach is like an old friend ready to welcome me home. I dash upstairs and change into my pink bikini and wrap my black sarong around my waist. I grab my favorite book and hurry downstairs and out the front door. My flip-flops slap against the sand as I walk further down the shore. With a whoosh, I lay out my towel and plop myself down.

  Ah, it feels so good to be back.

  The weather is perfect. The sun shines high in the sky, and I open my book and start reading. Not more than ten minutes later do I hear a satiny-smooth Russian accent coming from behind me.

  “Privyet.”

  “Uh, hello.”

  “Can I sit?”

  “Sure, I don’t care,” I say with indifference.

  He lays out a towel and plants himself right next to me.

  “Where’s Tasha?” I ask.

  “Napping. She takes quite a few in one day. Twenty-six years old is catching up to her.”

  “You’re funny,” I deadpan. “So what about you? How old are you?” I place my book down next to me and glance over to him.

  “Twenty-nine.” He grabs my book and flips it over to read the title. He smiles and places it back down. “You like reading books like that?”

  “No, I hate it, that’s why I read them.” I raise a brow as I grab my book and place it on the other side of me.